


Playing With Protocol

by TheGreatLibraryFangirl (Mazeem)



Series: Kink and Bone [8]
Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Anxiety, BDSM, Dario Santiago Is A Mess, Dom/sub, Domme Khalila Seif, Edging, F/M, Femdom, Magical Healing Kink, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misuse of Ancient Greek, Multilingual Character, Naked Male Clothed Female, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, as in the comfort is unrealistically successful, comfort kink, high protocol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazeem/pseuds/TheGreatLibraryFangirl
Summary: Different scenes in which Khalila and Dario use occasional high-protocol D/s to make each other feel better. Set long after canon has ended.Plot? What Plot?
Relationships: Dario Santiago/Khalila Seif
Series: Kink and Bone [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1444414
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. My Sun, My Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: anxious character, D/s, highly structured dominance/submission play, sexual content; specifically hand-job with edging, begging for release, one-sided nudity. 
> 
> As usual, let me know if you want any more added.
> 
> All foreign language mistakes are mine as usual.

Dario looked at the clock yet again. Two minutes since he’d last checked. Only the compulsion to check the passing of time was beating his frustrated desire to throw the stupid ticking thing across the lounge. 

It was nearing eleven o’clock at night, and Khalila was very late home. 

That wasn’t in and of itself unusual, but Khalila had spent most of the week embroiled in a difficult negotiation with China, and it had become rare for Dario to see her in their Lighthouse penthouse suite after dawn or before midnight. 

He couldn’t help but remember the disastrous mess of talks with Russia. It was over a year ago, but she’d ended up sleeping in her office and only eating when someone put food directly in front of her (and ideally temporarily removed her writing implements), and her hands had gotten inflamed and cracked and then  _ infected _ and Dario just … he just didn’t want her to go through that again. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? 

Obviously, going to her office and telling her that it was time to come home was out of the picture. It was so tempting that it made Dario’s skin itch, but he knew he shouldn’t, and wouldn’t. 

(Not after what had happened the last time he’d got worried enough to try that, anyway.)

Instead, he was trying enticement as a strategy.

_ Come home before midnight _ , he’d written in his very best handwriting,  _ and I’ll make it worth your while. _

After examining the bit of paper he’d drafted the message on, he had copied it carefully into his Codex. He made only one change; the insertion of  _ mestra _ between the clauses. 

Not ‘flower’, or ‘desert rose,’ or any of his more outlandish endearments that he enjoyed lavishing upon her. 

Not ‘my lady,’ which was the originally tongue-in-cheek title he had given her when they’d first acknowledged her desire to exert authority over him in the bedroom and his thankfully corresponding need to yield to her. 

No,  _ mestra _ was a Catalan term etymologically descended from  _ Magister _ , and they’d chosen it to signify that their dynamic would happen outside of the bedroom as well.

He hadn’t used it in rather a while. He had a high libido and a taste for instant gratification, so he would generally choose ‘my lady’ and a tumble in the bedroom over anything requiring more effort.

But Khalila liked the extra formality very much. Enough, he had hoped, to make her reassess her endless to-do list.

Still, he needed to refresh his memory on the rules that they had agreed together. They hadn’t elevated their protocol to this level for several months.

So here he was, curled up on the couch with one and a half eyes on the cursed clock and half an eye on the beautiful dark red notebook open in his lap. Its edges were gilded with gold leaf, and it was embossed with the Santiago family coat of arms. 

Dario’s father had definitely not intended his extravagant and unnecessary gift to be used like this. 

The first rule, painstakingly copied out by Dario in gold ink, read;

> _ You shall be nude unless commanded otherwise _ . 

He’d obeyed that rule a good half an hour ago, and couldn’t even distract himself from watching the clock by taking advantage of said state because of the next two rules:

> _ You shall not touch your gential area unless permitted.  _
> 
> _ You will not orgasm unless permitted. _

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible dot of light grey ink next to the latter rule. Dario’s little reminder to himself. 

_ Permission to touch is not permission to orgasm _ , he thought. Last time, he had ended up writing one hundred and fifty lines of that phrase to atone for breaking the orgasm rule. It had been a boring and frustrating punishment, but the speed at which he’d recalled the phrase suggested it had been effective. 

He should remember to mention that to Khalila. Hopefully she would be pleased. 

That made him look at the clock again, and doubt himself. 

He could imagine her drawn, half-sleep-walking state far too easily. It made his chest tighten. 

More than likely she wouldn’t be pleased. More than likely she would be so stressed and exhausted that she would just go straight to bed, and then he would feel horrible for putting pressure on her, and when she woke up she would feel guilty for not indulging his stupid whims, and then they would probably end up having one of those arguments where they fought entirely in subtext and Khalila would just storm back to the office anyway. So it would be pointless. The whole thing. Pointless. 

He had been wrong to ask for this..

Just as he lifted his stylus to retract his stupid offer, his Codex alerted him to a message.

> _ How unexpected.  _
> 
> _ I have just tipped the carriage driver most unnecessarily.  _ _ Inshallah, it _ _ should speed my journey. _
> 
> _ Be ready, darling.  _
> 
> _ Mestra _ .

That thunked an obstacle in the way of his scurrying thoughts. 

Well. She certainly seemed interested. 

But she could be faking it. Yes, she’d called him ‘darling’, which was her signifier to him in the same way as ‘my lady’ and ‘mestra’, it was very easy to write a word. Easy to pretend enthusiasm when handwriting was your only clue. God knew he did it easily enough. 

His bottom lip was starting to dry out from all his worried nibbling. With a heavy sigh, he got up to apply some lip balm. It wouldn’t do to kiss her with substandard lips. 

He had three flavours. That seemed like a lot of choice. He stared at the little wooden boxes until they blurred, then grabbed a cloth to give his underarms a precautionary clean instead. At least he had gotten himself sugared nice and smooth all over just three days ago. He scrutinised the line of his goatee in the mirror. 

Then he heard the gentle chime of the proximity notice. Someone had entered the floor of their suite. 

Oh shit. Was that Khalila?

He grabbed the closest pot of lip balm and smeared a glob onto his bottom lip.

Well it’s not likely to be anyone else, is it, you fucking idiot, he scolded himself as he hurried out of the bathroom and back into the lounge. He had another rule to follow. Khalila had even reminded him of this one with her note to ‘be ready,’ which was kind and gracious of her. 

> _ You shall follow the greeting protocol whenever appropriate. _

Protocols were in a different section of his notebook, and he mentally cross-referenced to it. Originally he had genuflected, down on one knee like he would to the Sacrament, like he wished he had been able to do when he proposed to her, but Khalila much preferred to crib from traditional Japanese formalities.

So he positioned himself in the centre of the room, far back enough from the door that she could put her coat away. Could even walk around him and ignore him, if she so wished. 

His mouth went a little dry at the thought. 

Concentrate, he ordered himself. He knelt, legs fully bent underneath him, upturned feet flat on the floor, weight on his heels. His palms rested on his slightly spread thighs. His back was straight.

He tried to visualise the notebook page again. Was that everything? He thought so. 

He bowed his head and stared at the rug in front of him. His pulse pounded. 

Oh dear, he should have practised this more. He hoped she wasn’t being pulled into polite smalltalk with the security team - he could already feel the circulation slowing in his feet. 

No. That was the sound of her coming through the front door and into the Obscurist-script-warded vestibule. 

The connecting door opened and Khalila came into the lounge. All he could see were her feet in their beautiful bright blue shoes, but even that snippet told him tales. 

The shoes were still shiny and unsullied, so she hadn’t walked outdoors at all. Yet she was standing a little awkwardly, not quite bearing her weight squarely across both feet, so she’d spent most of the day standing. 

His heart was beating so quickly that his vision was losing definition, just a touch. He forced his chest to rise and fall slowly. 

“Good evening,  _ m - estra _ .” The vowel twisted in his mouth, wanting to return to the habit of ‘my’ in ‘my lady,’ but he pushed past that. 

“Good evening, darling.” Her fingers sank into his curls, pressing closely enough to his scalp that he could tell it was her less-scarred hand she was using. Too much writing, as well. “Thank you for waiting so nicely.”

He couldn’t tell enough from her voice. He wanted to look up so badly that his neck began to ache.

“May I pour you a drink,  _ mestra _ ? Run you a bath?” He bit his lip as soon as he’d finished, as if he could bite that second phrase back. Too much. 

She gave a short, soft sigh of a laugh. “I must look awful if you’re offering service!”

His face flushed hot and prickly as he raised his head and met her arch gaze. He wasn’t the type of person who submitted through service, he never would be. Now she knew he was being stupid and overprotective and worrying again. Shit. 

She ruffled his hair with gentle reprove, pushing his head downwards again. “Bring me a drink, then. Something tart and cool.”

> _ You shall acknowledge all communication with respectful affirmation. _

“Yes,  _ mestra _ .” Getting up with the proper Japanese form took concentration. He brought his feet from flat up onto his toes, and then moved his right knee upwards first before standing, back straight. He kept his head down, gaze further down, to avoid their respective heights resulting in an accidental glance.

“Bit of a wobble,” she proclaimed, and only the distracting pain of returning blood flow around his knees and toes stopped him from reacting to the censure. “Practise that for the future.”

“Yes,  _ mestra _ .”

“Oh, and darling?” she called as he turned away. “Verbalise everything else you’d do for me if you were permitted.”

He winced. “Yes,  _ mestra _ .” The positive side of that order was that, like the drink offer, she might think something was a good idea. More likely, though, she just wanted Dario to unspool his irrationality for her to examine. 

He needed busy hands if he was going to obey that fully, so rather than just pour the freshly squeezed orange juice that he’d put in the ice-box that morning, he grabbed two limes and a little bottle of syrup from the ingredients section of his ornate drinks cabinet. 

“Well. I’m already making you a drink. So.” He coughed, despite his throat being clear. “A bath, like I said.” 

“Mmhm.” Was that acknowledgement, or just a sigh of relief as she sat on the sofa?

He cut the limes in half as he listened to her move around. He could picture the exact position she’d be in, legs half curled underneath her, shoulder tucked into the corner between the back and the arm. Her typical tired position. 

“A hand massage.” He watched his own hands squeezing the limes hard. “With the heavy moisturising cream that you don’t use because you get bored of waiting for it to dry.” Scowling, he scooped a few stray seeds out of the mixing glass. “And a foot massage, too.” 

“Sounds lovely,” Khalila said, in that dry voice that meant she was gearing up to make a point. 

To the little puddle of lime juice he added half a glass of orange juice, and a generous glug of the sweet syrup. Then he added some crushed ice and shook the mixing glass hard, loudly enough that he could pretend there was no point in him carrying on talking. 

“Is that all you were thinking of?” she asked as he brought her the drink. She had already laid out his kneeling cushion next to her and so he obediently settled there. 

He wanted to shrug, but he was absolutely forbidden to avoid answering in such a rude manner. “I could brush your hair, too.” Her scalp could be tender by the end of the day, after all.

The touch of her fingers in his hair should have calmed him, but it didn’t. Anticipation weighted the air heavily between them. He wanted to screw his eyes shut and bury his face in her thigh, but he didn’t. Just waited for his scolding, like a good boy. 

Fuck. Switching to high protocol had been a fucking horrendous idea. 

“Those all sound like lovely things,” she began, stroking his scalp. “But if I wanted you to provide me with such soothing services, I would ask, wouldn’t I, darling?”

“Yes,  _ mestra _ .”

“Or even just do it myself. You know I like brushing my hair before I turn off the bedside glows.”

“Yes,  _ mestra _ .” 

“I could do all of those things myself, couldn’t I?”

He sank his teeth into his bottom lip. Yes, he thought, but you wouldn’t do them well enough, you wouldn’t relax enough - 

“Oh, my moonlight, I can as good as hear you thinking.” Her hand in his hair pulled him against her thigh, and he laid his cheek there begrudgingly. “You could watch me do all sorts of nice things for myself, right now, and you still wouldn’t be content. And perhaps you’re trying to tell yourself that it’s because I don’t pamper myself enough -”

The words  _ You don’t! _ flung themselves so hard against Dario’s lips that his teeth released his lower lip, sore and dented - 

And Khalila’s fingers filled that dangerous space and pressed his tongue down.

That burst of energy flowed out of him, directionless, and he found himself leaning a little more genuinely against her leg. 

She noisily drank from the glass then put it on the side with her free hand. Her fingers were firm in his mouth, pinning his tongue down, keeping him silent. 

There was a strange, wonderful moment where he felt simultaneously ignored and attended to. Still and silent and empty. 

But when she started speaking again, his chest lurched and his mind woke again. 

“We both know that when you let yourself worry about me, you believe that you’re the only person who can help.”

He made a small, garbled sound of acknowledgement around her fingers. She released the pressure on his tongue and he swirled it around her fingers gratefully. 

“But if I need your help, darling, I will ask for it.”

A thousand answers squirmed inside Dario’s mouth. There were more than enough examples of her wearing herself out to counter this laughable notion. But he inhaled deeply and held his silence. 

“Oh, that was difficult, wasn’t it?” Her finger spread and curved inside his mouth, her thumb tucking underneath his jawline, and he let the pressure of her grip raise his head. 

She smiled down at him. He scrutinised her face, at last, and found only mild signs of weariness marring her beauty. 

Her only make-up was kohl and brown lip colour, and that was reassuring too. She only tended to apply heavily when she needed the boost. The pressure in his chest relaxed, just a little. 

“Come here, my love, come here.”

He moved as she directed, and ended up kneeling high between her legs, where she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him in for a firm, deep kiss. 

He tried to guide the kiss, just a little, just to test her. Immediately her hands tightened in his hair and her tongue filled his mouth. Her calves wound around his thighs, yanking him even closer to her. Making her point. Staking her claim. 

The heat of her tongue invading his mouth and her hands roaming over his bare back burnt away that terrible image of her exhausted mien from previous late homecomings. 

It loosened the anxious knot in his chest. In the worst of his imaginations, she would never have the energy, nor the inclination to behave so domineeringly. 

She shifted her position further back on the sofa and he leaned forwards to follow her, drawn as if he were a flower to her sunlight. Ungainly, undignified and above all  _ relieved _ , he sprawled on top of her and let her graceful yet insistent strength suffuse him.

“Hands out of the way,” she said some time later, kissing his ear. He did as he was told, mentally turning to the right section of his notebook for the actions: hands crossed neatly at his wrists and held a touch higher than the small of his back. “Good.”

That washed over him in a warm wave. “Thank you,  _ mestra _ .”

“Now …” 

She pushed and pulled him until he was stretched out above her. On the plus side, this was the perfect height for her to lavish his jaw and neck with bites and licks and kisses. On the minus side, holding that position while bent forward from his knees took an awful lot of core strength. 

It was nice, though. No, damn it, it was better than nice, it was deeply satisfying to be given a way to struggle and prove himself. So he held himself straight and steady until his muscles and ached.

“Well done,” she whispered, kissing his neck and pressing one hand very gently to his quivering stomach. “Can you do better, darling?” Her hand slid lower and closed around his erection.

He groaned, then sucked in a breath to answer before she prompted: “I can do it,  _ mestra _ .”

“Good boy.” The words brushed gently over his skin and he groaned again. Being called a good boy when he thought he deserved it always made him want to snuggle against her, but he couldn’t. Had to stay like this. Available for her.

Time ticked by. 

He was  _ definitely _ going to throw that fucking clock in the incinerator tomorrow. 

Did clocks exist without ticking sounds? 

Thomas would know. Thomas liked new projects. 

As if she could sense his attempts to distract himself from the demands of his body, Khalila gave his sensitive tip a few delicate rubs. He had to bite his lip to suppress a curse.

The ache in his core grew to a burn and sweat sprang up all over him.

Khalila seemed wonderfully immune to his shaking body and ragged breaths. She just kept kissing and nuzzling his neck, her inhales cool and her exhales warm against his damp skin, and touching his erection so lightly that it was almost uncomfortable. 

“Khalila,” he begged eventually. 

She raised her head to meet his eyes, her gaze a fierce dark slash across his raw soul. 

What did … what? He couldn’t think over the multiple overwhelming stimuli. 

“ _ Mestra _ ,” he gasped at last.

She’d already returned her head to its previous position along his collarbone. “Darling?” she said in response, light and easy and relaxed. 

“Please,  _ mestra _ .” 

She positioned her hand in an encouraging place on his straining erection, and then did nothing with it. Was she waiting for him to ask permission to orgasm? He hadn’t even thought about it. He’d go without in a heartbeat if he could just relax his stomach. Just relax. Please. 

“Can I? Down? Please?”

Incoherent. No available energy to improve it. 

Her thumb rubbed him firmly in the most sensitive spot, and his hips instinctively bucked forwards. His stressed abdominal muscles screamed at him for it. 

“Back into  _ seiza  _ for me, my good boy.”

He whimpered helplessly and grabbed at the material of the sofa for support, as he fumbled himself backwards and half-fell ungracefully into a gross approximation of his position from earlier. 

She leaned into his field of vision. Was she kneeling too? Or leaning down from the sofa? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. His forehead was resting against hers and their eyelashes were brushing together. 

Both her hands were on him now, plying him with relentless expertise, and he made a pathetic noise at the idea of trying to resist this until he could find the words to ask for permission. He made a pleading moan; tried to beg with his eyes. 

She beamed at him, blazing with power, and leaned towards his ear to say in a low, firm voice,

“No need to ask, darling. I  _ demand _ it.”

He hid his face in her shoulder, finally, and didn’t last very long after that. 

* * *

Time passed. He couldn’t hear the clock anymore. Funny, that. He cuddled her calves and pillowed his head on her thighs while she stroked his hair and massaged the back of his neck. It was really very difficult to stay awake, but he hadn’t been released from the strictures of the rules yet.

“Are you feeling better, darling?” Her voice seemed quite far away.

He hummed an affirmation into the soft purple of her dress. Oh, no, wait, he should respond properly. 

Wait, what had she said? Hm? 

“Are  _ you _ feeling better?” he shot back. He sounded half-asleep, dammit. 

“Ah. This is for me, is it?” 

He nodded his head. “You were late.”

“Hm.” She smoothed her hands firmly through his hair and all down his neck, causing a delighted sound to fall from his lips. Everywhere that had been painful and tense was warm and soft. 

Including his brain. Stay awake, idiot. 

“It  _ was _ very nice to come home to.” She tapped the back of his neck with her fingernails and he shivered. “You’re welcome to make the suggestion again, darling. We’ll have to concoct some nicer phraseology, though. Yours was rather vulgar.”

He smiled. “I am foul and vulgar compared to you,  _ mestra _ .” 

She chuckled. “Oh shut up, you flatterer.”

Dario opened his mouth and then closed it again. If they were in the bedroom, he would have responded tartly with “Make me,” and she would have done so, in any number of ways. But like this, she wouldn’t be led. If she wanted his mouth occupied, she would occupy it, and that was the end of the matter. 

“If we do this again, mestra, I think I need to go back to the gym.”

She made a sound somewhere between a snort and a tut. “The last thing you need is to go and heft weights and punch things. You need to stretch more.”

“Yes,  _ mestra _ .”

She pinched his ear. “Careful,  _ ya qamar _ . I’m in the mood to make that a lasting order.”

“Yes,  _ mestra _ .” He wouldn’t mind that. Some sort of exercise regime. He’d do it in the morning, maybe, after coffee. 

_ Ya qamar _ , she had called him, and oh it was a fine sign when she slipped into Arabic. O my moon, an endearment of beauty. 

“ _ Enti shamsi _ ,” he said, very, very carefully.  _ You are my sun _ . 

She stroked his cheek. “That also needs practise. Have you anything to recite, darling?”

He turned and kissed her fingers. “ _ Tis as though she were the morning sun in Aries, crossing the degrees of the zodiac in their furthest heights _ .”

Khalila started laughing. “Dario, I told you not to-”

“ _ If she lifts her veil or uncovers her face, she holds cheap the rays of the bright dawn _ .” His Arabic accent was horrendous and he knew it, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Dario, that is a profound philosophical treatise making metaphorical -”

“ _ She is a pearl hidden in a shell of hair as black as jet. A pearl for which Thought dives and remains unceasingly in the deeps of that ocean _ .”

“At least recite it in order!”

He stopped to laugh with her then. 

But even as they smiled and sat at ease, her hands stayed possessively on him, and he stayed curled at her feet. It just felt nice. 

When they rose to sleep at last, he waited for her order to stand, to follow. He waited for her to be finished in the bathroom before he got into bed, and the very act of obeying her helped to quiet the utterly irrational whispering that she was hiding her worn state from him. 

When he awoke, alone as usual, there was a note on her pillow. 

The details of an exercise class, signed _M_. 

And underneath, in small, quick strokes,

> _ Let’s not wait so long until the next time, my love.  _
> 
> _ Kh. _


	2. Plans (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khalila comes home from a trip to Finland, expecting to have some fun with Dario. He's not, initially, on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been GOOD and not posted any porn in AGES ... *checks* ... since the SECOND OF DECEMBER and so now, porn???
> 
> Brain: Nope, have ... this. 
> 
> I've been poking at this for weeks and it's starting to drive me insane lol. So here's the first part, which doesn't actually contain much fun stuff lol. (is it possible for a chapter to be a cocktease? this is that.)
> 
> VALIDATE MEEEEE with hits and kudos so that I can get to the good stuff lol. 
> 
> Content warnings: **, religion, consensual power exchange, kneeling (imagined), public foreplay (imagined), high protocol, speech restrictions, (imagined), leashed sub (imagined), voyeurism (imagined), typical kink toys mentioned (flogger, nipple clamp, dildos etc), anxiety, brief hurt/comfort.**
> 
> Let me know if I missed anything up there.

Khalila let out a sigh of relief as the door of the Alexandrian Express opened onto the topmost platform of Misr Station and the warm air of an Alexandrian evening swept over her.

When she had first arrived in Alexandria years ago as a postulant, she had struggled with these humid summers that were so different from lovely dry Riyadh. But compared to the chill of a Finnish attempt at summer, she welcomed her adopted city's unfortunate tendency to make her perspire.

She nodded to her ever-present security guards as they arrayed themselves on the platform. "We're nearly home now! Thank you for your help."

Her captain, a burly Nepali woman, smiled in response. "Archivist."

After an hour or so tidying up affairs in her Serapeum office and completing her night prayer with extra thanks to Allah for uneventful travel and productive diplomacy, she took one of the new electric carriages home to the Lighthouse. The carriages were disconcertingly silent as they travelled along the darkening streets, but that didn't bother her for once. Her mind was otherwise occupied in a very different sphere of influence than that of an Archivist.

Many of her friends and family assumed, with jokes or with concern, that these long trips away tired her out, and thus dulled her sex life with her beloved husband. It was quite the opposite, though their assumption did make it easier to excuse her ignoring all messages for an evening.

Khalila could return exhausted sometimes, certainly, but if anything, issuing instructions to someone who didn't need persuaded to follow them was invigorating. A relief from the rest of her life.

To feel powerful as an Archivist was heart-stoppingly dangerous - all the more for how easy it was. Power was baked into the very origins of the Archivist role, and it was well-steeped in corruption, too. Every day she walked a constant tightrope of her own beliefs and principles, strung precariously over the lush, straight paths laid out by the terrible history of the Library.

She had taken the struggle on knowingly and she bore it with determination and hope, but it was still difficult. Often she could refresh herself through prayer and reading the Quran - she held her position ultimately through the grace and might of Allah, may He be glorified and exalted, and every day she thanked Him for guiding her decisions.

Approaching her marriage as a consensual exchange of power was a way to redirect any of those dangers. Pride. Power. Even selfishness. It was safe, and fun, and wonderful, because Dario _wanted_ her to do so, because it was actually a form of showing him her love and adoration. They were a balanced unit, complementary and equal in their desire for each other.

Elaborate and largely fanciful scenarios regarding those joint desires had certainly entertained her through the Finnish leaving ceremony yesterday evening.

Dario dressed in all his most opulent finery, but seated by her feet on a special cushion, eating from her plate.

Dario staving off the boredom of these ceremonies by hiding naked between her legs, underneath some truly absurd dress construction, or sat next to her with his most inscrutable face while she teased him through his trousers.

Dario on tight speech restrictions, permitted only to speak when she deemed it necessary. Or the opposite; Dario instructed to field _all_ approaching conversationalists with charm while she snuck a book under the table.

Everyone admiring him as he walked behind her on a pretty gold chain. That one had knocked the daydreams out of even the faintest tethering to reality, and so she'd amused herself next by imagining him as a servant, attentively filling everyone's glasses and accepting their mild lechery and steady disarrangement of his clothing as a reward. Or displayed as a nude ornament, to be viewed and interacted with in carefully prescribed ways. 

She had spent too long before turning out the glows for bed last night detailing all this into her personal Codex for Dario to read, and he had responded enthusiastically at the time. He had messaged her earlier today complaining of an irritating day, so hopefully he would be very much in the mood for some extended stress relief.

Humming, she wandered around their penthouse suite, laying toys out on the bed and considering their utility.

That pile of gilded red and black leather was a set of seven cuffs - wrists, ankles, thighs and a collar. Yes, he would look very nice restrained at every angle, kneeling somewhere in the suite for her to look at. Some beautiful golden ornaments to accentuate her view - earrings, nipple weights, and diamond and gold plugs for his intimate areas. 

She hefted a soft-furred but sturdy oak paddle in one hand and an elk-hide flogger in her other hand. After she'd got a good view from a distance, maybe it would be fun to turn his back pink and warm and then see how well he could bear being used as a footstool.

Their trusted shellacked wooden dildo? Light and easy to thrust quickly with. Or the newer extravagant marble one, heavy and more of a sensation than an activity? What was she in the mood for? Both could overwhelm him in their own ways. 

In the end, she laid both out and decided to react as she felt at the time. 

Sighing happily at the thought of the long weekend ahead, she took her Codex out. Night had well and truly fallen now, and she had expected him to be home by now. She assumed he was being sociable somewhere- he would never be one for staying late in the office unless trapped there by a previously ignored deadline. 

_When are you due home, darling?_

The reply came quickly. _I'll leave now_

There was a little dab next to the w of now, larger than a finalising punctuation mark, as if he had changed his mind about continuing with another word. One of the play titles they used, for example. The omission made her itch. Did that mean he was in the mood, or not? It was rare that he wasn't but it did happen. 

_Hurry home._

_At once, mestra._

Oh, that was better. The stricter of her play titles sent a warm thrill through her. 

Twenty minutes later, Dario swept through the door in a great state of bluster, stamping his feet as if he were cold. He was still dressed in the lace-edged double-breasted suit that he usually wore under his Scholar's robes. The linen was light as befitted summer, but surely not that light?

"Are you _cold_?"

The surprise of her tone seemed to halt him in his tracks. His hand froze mid-way to patting his hair. Then he blinked and visibly shook free out of whatever had stilled him. "It's night-time, had you not noticed? Not all of us have been to the Arctic." His tone was flippant and sharp, and he fussed at his hair without meeting her eyes. 

None of this was right. Dario had granted her the _mestra_ title for tonight; that meant he was now required to follow greeting protocols. He wasn't even referring to her with his normal flowery endearments, let alone performing greeting protocols. Yet he wasn't signalling his disinclination for the promised activities, either. 

"While I will grant you that the Lapland province of Finland is within the Arctic circle, Helsinki most certainly isn't." She let the correction emerge almost absentmindedly, something for her mouth to do while her eyes scrutinised him. Were his fingers shaking? She thought they might be. 

"As ever, I bow to your superior demonstration of pointless pedantry." He gave her a mirthless smile. 

Somebody else would have looked at Dario now and read aggression. Maybe even Jess - their relationship was probably never going to be free of that edge. But Khalila just saw those dreadful dazzling defences of his, raised high, and his tongue striking to deter anyone's approach. What had happened? None of his messages had indicated more than typical work stress. 

Were those defences raised against her, specifically? She decided to test that. It could backfire, but she thought it would be worth the risk. 

"Is that how you should greet me when you come home, darling?" 

He stared at her, wide-eyed and motionless again. It lasted only a moment, but that was enough to satisfy her. He wasn't specifically marshalling himself against her if the mere sound of her voice was enough to leave him open like that.

Disobedience within their roles, then - why was he trying to provoke her? She mustn't rise to it. 

"No, I suppose not," he said airily, and removed his cashmere scarf with one faux-careless swish. In theory, the start of him stripping for her, as was the protocol. But his fingers were undeniably trembling as he undid the large polished buttons of the suit jacket, and when he'd managed that and set it aside on its hook, the third button of his shirt defeated him entirely. "Fuck," he muttered, flexing his hands in and out of fists. 

"Dario," she said, softly, then, softer still, laying the word between them like an offering. "Darling."

He shuddered from head to toe. "I'm fine. I could do with a drink, though." He gave her a hopeful look from under his eyelashes, meek and pretty, as if he hadn't just sounded the loudest alarm that she possessed. Dario binge-drank to regulate distress and guilt, and little else. 

"I want you sober."

His smooth, bland expression crumpled into a fierce scowl.

Some of the Greek temples here in Alexandria held beautiful gold and ivory statues of their gods, but although astonishing to behold, they were made largely from wood. All show and no substance. _Chryselephantine_. She thought about that now, as she watched Dario's natural emotional lability burn through his self-control just as Greek Fire could immolate the most beautiful statue. 

Eyes flashing, fists clenched; he would be the very picture of strength and anger if she didn't know him much better than that. "Well, I fucking _don't_ want to be sober!" he snarled. 

She stepped in close, and put her hands tight on his hips as if she might shove him. "Wall. Now."

He stumbled backwards as if she had in fact pushed him, stooping with apparent difficulty to scoop up her stool from where it lay a few feet away, acting as temporary book storage.

She let her gratitude show in a wide smile for a moment. Such willing submission, even in turmoil. Then she leaned forwards onto her toes and hurtled towards him. He'd barely straightened from placing the stool in front of him when she hit, crashing him against the wall with every meagre pound of her bodyweight and using the height from the stool to press their lips together. His mouth had opened in a gasp as she drove into him, and she took full advantage of that space with her tongue. To her relief, his mouth tasted of coffee and cake rather than the astringent burn of alcohol. 

His hands curled like claws into her back and shoulders, not pushing her away but grabbing and clutching with the feverish energy that welled out of him when he was like this. She kissed him back with just as much force, hard enough to bruise both their mouths, showing him that she was more than capable of absorbing his distress and that she wouldn't run from it. Their hearts thundered in a bounding, messy rhythm, reverberating inseparably between their tightly-pressed chests. She wound his hair into her fists until her fingers protested, and pulled, firm and steady. He made a tiny, muffled sound against her probing tongue which blossomed into a groan when she finally freed his mouth. 

Breathless, she glared into his eyes, their faces still so close together that their eyelashes kept tangling as they blinked. That boiling crisis point seemed to have been vented, but his eyes were still stormy.

"Hands," she instructed. Despite the rebellion in his gaze, he obeyed immediately, placing his palms flat against the wall by his sides. Almost immediately she felt his chest and shoulders tense as he fought the urge to put his hands back around her.

"Good," she praised, and tilted her head to bite his ear, slowly grinding at it with her molars until he let out a sharp grunt that was deafening in their close confines. "Good," she murmured again, soothing the reddened shell with her lips and tongue. The painful bite wasn't the punishment that he was maladaptively trying to engender. Giving him something to focus his flailing fight on was the aim - give him his own muscles to push against, give him pain to feel fading away. This close together, he couldn't hide anything - not the hitch of his breathing, nor the patter of his heart or the twitching of his rebellious hands. 

After a while, she tested him again: "Hands back on me."

His embrace was steady now, warm hands competently finding the parts of her that always protested after long hours on the train. Better. She let go of his hair with one hand, ignoring his brief complaining hum, and stroked her way down his shoulders, his chest, into the bare V exposed by the few buttons that he had managed, then his still-covered stomach - then darted her hand away from his groin at the last moment to touch what she could of his rear and thighs instead, tucking her hand chastely into his trouser pocket. He made a much less brief complaining noise at that, and she pressed her answering grin into the crook of his neck. 

"Careful," she warned, flicking her tongue against him on the 'l'. When she raised her head again, he deliberately brushed his lips against hers. His beautiful dark eyes swam with the silent plea. How could she resist?

His lips were soft and welcoming this time, and she seized the invitation with long, lazy swipes of her tongue. Even with this strange, tempestuous homecoming, it was wonderful to sink into the familiarity of her husband's body and scent, to luxuriate in the yielding heat of his mouth and the gentle rise and fall of his chest against hers. 

It took her far too long to realise that said rising and falling was, um, more on her part than his. With a startled gasp, she stopped kissing him and tried to dismiss the hungry throbbing between her legs. Clearly, he wasn't the only one feeling a little deprived of affection. Grinding against him like this would have been acceptable behaviour had her previous plans panned out, but not while she was trying to calm him down! 

" _Mestra_?" With their faces so close together, she couldn't quite make out his facial expression, but the confused inflection in his voice interrupted her self-recriminations. She realised that his hands were firmly on her rear and his thigh was usefully tense between her legs. That certainly helped her reinterpret the scenario. Of course he was interested. She was utilising his body as a sex toy. Her selfish id probably couldn't have picked a better distraction for him if it had tried. 

It appealed intensely to her, too, knowing that he would let her address her own pleasure without considering his. 

" _Now_ you call me that?" she said, arch and breathless. She hiked the front folds of her dress into his hands, safely out of the way, then thrust her hips forwards again. This time the firm surface of his clothed thigh through her thin underwear made her gasp. She tucked her face into his neck while she chased the delicious throbbing sensation between her legs, and sucked his skin so hard against her teeth that functionally she was just biting him again. 

She could probably have ground her way into at least two orgasms, but that would have left her much more sated than she had planned for, so she stopped after one. As she was still catching her breath and snuggling, Dario kissed her forehead and said, 

"You must have been desperate to still want me after that behaviour." Needy tone. Wanting reassurance. 

"I always want you." She pressed her lips to his cheek, at the edge of his goatee where it got a little scruffy towards the end of the day. "Sometimes I want to scream and throttle you, but my mother says that's a sign of a healthy marriage."

He grinned, and then his eyes narrowed and darkened and the grin turned into a smirk. "You can throttle me if you'd like." 

She rolled her eyes. Breathplay was a fantasy for Dario and a hard no for her. "Shut up." She shifted her weight away and gazed at him. He kept his arms around her as she withdrew - if anything he tugged at the small of her back in a gentle little plea for more contact that she ignored with a pang in her chest. "Are you feeling better?"

He nodded, but his gaze slid away from hers. "I apologise. I don't quite know why I ... it's been a stressful couple of days and I didn't sleep well last night."

She tried to keep her dismay from showing on her face. He was either lying by omission or genuinely disconnected from his own distress. Neither of those mindsets were compatible with the activities that she had planned for the night. Restraining him just to look at, holding him at arm's length ... no, he he was clearly far too hungry for contact. As, if she were honest, was she. She didn't usually slam him against a wall to begin their reunion, nor rut against him like a mindless beast.

The two of them had only been separated for just over a week, which was nothing compared to her trips to Japan or his longer stays with his family, but this time his absence had itched against her soul every day. Now that she knew he had been struggling without her too, it made the thought of deliberately not touching him seem cruel.

She cupped his cheek. "Let's go to bed, then, if you're tired. We can read, or play a boardgame, or chat."

He blinked and scowled again. "No, don't. Your message ... I've been looking forward to it." He swallowed. "Leaning on it, frankly."

That little slap of harsh honesty relieved some of her concerns. "So have I." She cupped his other cheek too, stroking his face with her thumbs until he relaxed and gave her a tiny smile. Maybe she could make new plans. Cuddlier plans. There was one thing left to check, though. "Where were you, when I messaged you?" A fist of ice tightened around her chest; there were many potentially bad answers to this.

"With Jess, at the café."

His favourite café with (questionably) one of his favourite people. Certainly that dovetailed with the taste of coffee and cake that she had enjoyed kissing out of his mouth.

That was partly a relief and partly not so; it couldn't be a lie, but their presence there could also very easily have been an intervention by Jess. They all had to do that for each other, as and when.

Anxious curiosity curdled in her gut, but she could allow him privacy and still assuage her main issue.

"I won't be manipulated into being the tool you use to flagellate yourself. So if what's caused you to be upset is guilt, then you need to decide whether you can set it aside for tonight. We can talk about it another time."

He took in a sharp breath, and then another, deeper one, in and out. "You know me so well," he murmured, leaning in to touch their foreheads together and closing his eyes. "I don't want to ruin your plans."

"My plans are mine to do with as I wish."

The corner of his lips quirked up again. "As ever." He sighed. "Old insecurities and old guilt, beloved. Nothing new, nothing sharp. Nothing to worry you with tonight."

"No?" She sought his gaze with a firm hand under his chin. This time he held it steadily.

"I swear." He cast his eyes down, prettily, meaningfully. " _Mestra_." The deference made her want to squash him against the wall again and kiss him until they both melted, but she refrained. She had more control than that. Much more. It was time to remind him of that. 

"Then in that case, you may greet me properly."

He nodded and to her surprise, rather than reaching for his shirt buttons again, he edged politely sideways. Oh. Towards the door. Starting the whole protocol again.

It wasn't quite the grandiose gesture of recompense he was capable of but it was in the same vein, and it made her smile once he was in the foyer and couldn't see her do so. 

The door handle turned. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely self-indulgent, so I hope someone else out there enjoys it! This came out of me wondering one day how to kinkily address Dario's canon habit of always assuming that Khalila can't handle herself.
> 
> You can see the poem Dario was quoting [here](https://www.sacred-texts.com/isl/taa/taa51.htm) , with the commentary that Khalila is referring to.


End file.
